


A Party of Two

by presidentwarden



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Conversations, Dress Up, F/F, Light Angst, Serious, War Era, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-05 11:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5373395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/presidentwarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weddings are boring, terrible, pretentious things, or else a waste of district energy and resources, depending on who you ask. And that’s how the two most difficult, endlessly stressed women in District Thirteen end up passing the time with a conversation and a dance, finding common ground in their goals.</p><p>- - -</p><p>“Alma, why does everything you say sound like it belongs on a propaganda poster?” Johanna grips her tighter, settling into a slow rhythm of swaying back and forth with her in a poor imitation of an actual dance. “Be genuine!”</p><p>“I am genuine! This is me.” And before she can control it, Alma is hissing out pent-up thoughts through gritted teeth, looking Johanna right in the eyes, their unflinching stares matching each other in raw intensity. “Do you think everything that I am is just a manufactured act, poised to take the throne when Snow falls? Do you think I’ve led my people for two decades just for a chance at my own glory? I was prepared to do this until I died, and I still am. As a matter of fact, I expect that.” She inhales sharply. “So don’t consider me stupid for considering the possibility that there might be a chance for me to outlast this rebellion. A small chance is all I have.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Johanna slips into the role as easily as a second skin.

She’s volunteered herself as a diversion, for the sake of Katniss, who she does not  _like_  – Johanna doesn’t like anyone – but who has earned her respect, if only because she has persevered through the improbable. Johanna won’t go so far to say that it’s impossible, because they’re all still here, aren’t they? Some are in worse shape than others, Finnick with his despair and Annie with her fits of madness and… Peeta. But the Victors have risen above, in true form, and Katniss has a plan, and Johanna has nothing better to do that afternoon.

“He’s going to pay for it.” Johanna barely restrains a curse from falling from her lips, a choice expletive to aim at the decrepit old man in his gleaming palace, but she settles for a brusque nod in Katniss’s direction before they part ways. She shouldn’t swear at a wedding, but she fucking  _would_ , if it was anyone other than Finnick’s. He and Annie deserve whatever small measure of happiness they’ve been able to claim, free from disruption.

And they do seem to be claiming it. Citizens are swirling and milling around, caught up in a jubilant folk dance, homegrown and refugee musicians alike providing the merriment. This whole ceremony has been held in one of D13’s underground meadows, a sanctuary slightly less grey than the rest of the claustrophobic old bunker. Johanna isn’t used to life like this, all tunnels and mazes and hidden paths through a network of doors. It’s like being in an ant colony. She craves the open air, lungfuls of it, with the wind whipping at her face and the sharp bite of pine scent on the air. That means home. Instead here there is only the stale calmness of recirculated dry air and a faint smell of cleanliness, which would be fine if it didn’t remind her so much of the damned  _hospital._  She hates it.

This isn’t the hummingbird meadow. Johanna would have noticed if there were little birds zipping through the air here and there. Maybe D13’s underground facilities are more pleasant than she thought, if there’s room for  _two_ sanctuaries like this. Or maybe they just harvested all the hummingbirds before the wedding, to make bite-size appetizers. A grim little smirk flashes across her face at the thought, and she strides across the room, cutting through the dancing crowd, paying no heed to the pattern or the rhythm. But as she scans the crowd, she is suddenly and acutely self-conscious of her shaven head, her pallor from injury and illness, the faint limp in her stride, and above all, the burning itch in her veins that craves the calming numb of morphling. Everyone here is having the time of their lives, and Johanna is barely managing.

She isn’t alone in her isolation. The front row of seats, formerly filled with guests of honor and various D13 dignitaries, is occupied now only by one small downcast figure, a vision of grey in her fitted jumpsuit and her silky hair, framing her face like a sleek cascade of silver. She’s hunched over her communicuff, tapping something away at the screen, though who she could be writing to is a mystery. Everyone important is already here. Bright golden eyes meet Johanna’s narrowed stare as the president glances up from her work, lips parted, ready to address the tribute. But Johanna has tossed herself casually into the chair beside her already, arm slung around her narrow shoulders, addressing her with no more reverence than another citizen. “Madam Prez.”

“Miss Mason.” Alma acknowledges her calmly, setting her communicuff aside. She’s taken to tucking it in her pocket rather than wrapped around the wrist in the usual way. She’ll inevitably fidget with it too much otherwise, and a president should not fidget. She relaxes just an inch, stretching out her legs in the chair and sitting back, allowing herself a lingering glance in Johanna’s direction. Her voice, soft as it is, rises above the chatter to Johanna’s ears. “Welcome to the event.”

“I’ve been here the whole time.” Johanna eyes her, a bit less tactfully. “I was sitting two rows behind you.”

“I know.” One grey eyebrow lifts. “You haven’t participated until now.”

“Neither have you.” Johanna lets go of Alma’s shoulder, tipping back in her chair just far enough to test gravity’s limits and crossing her arms nonchalantly. “I stole a piece of cake before everything started. I think that counts as participation.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Alma sighs. That can’t have gone unnoticed. She discreetly glances over at the refreshments table, but the cake has already been sliced into by a hundred eager guests, looking more like a mound of icing and rubble than an intact confection. “How was it?”

“Not that good. Looked prettier than it tasted.”

“I see.” Alma deliberately lets her gaze sweep back over the room in a calculated arc, landing on Johanna. The girl’s dressed in D13 fatigues, a bit large for her spare frame, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and the pants tucked into battered combat boots. She has a long grey jacket on over it, almost knee-length, something stolen from an utility closet. It’s unbuttoned and belted at the waist, framing Johanna like an oversized trenchcoat. A thousand things to say flash through Alma’s mind, but she settles on none of them. She is an expert at inauthentic small talk, but not the real kind, an intimate but quiet exchange of shared thoughts. Not in front of all these people. “Everyone seems to be having an excellent time. I’ll admit, Plutarch wanted more festivities than we’d planned in our budget, but the compromise was a good choice.”

“Yeah. I guess. Who cares?” Johanna groans, and leans her head on Alma’s shoulder, expecting the woman to flinch. She doesn’t, and the girl smiles to herself, just a little. “Where’d he run off to, anyway?”

“To dance, I believe.” Alma’s mouth twists into a slight frown, easily picking out his figure among the crowd. “I didn’t feel like joining him.”

“Like he’d ask you.” Johanna scoffs. “Gale might have. Good thing  _he’s_  not here.”

Alma half-absorbs this, reflecting the thought in an understated question. “You don’t want anyone asking me, do you?”

“Course not. You’re the president. It’d be wrong for you to dance with just  _anyone.”_  Johanna waves a hand idly, rolling her eyes. “I mean, yeah, fine, part of your charm is that you’re just like everybody else. You buy into it all, that whole grey-uniform shit, all for one, one for all. It’s kind of cute how much you care. But this is different. You don’t want to get involved in it, do you? It’s not your day.” Johanna turns to stare at her keenly. “And this has propo value. The more you stay out of it, the better. Right? Nobody gets to see the president having fun.”

Alma looks downright offended, and takes a pause to respond. “It’s not that deep.” A moment of hesitation. “I don’t dance.”

“Fine. You don’t dance, _plus_ all that.” Johanna gets up out of the chair, hauling herself up with a bit of difficulty and a twinge of pain, then reaches out and abruptly pulls Alma to her feet, standing face to face with her. “I don’t dance either, but like fuck if I’m going to pass up a chance to make an idiot out of myself when nobody’s looking. You think they’re going to be paying attention to you or me right now? No way. They’ve already got a pair of star-crossed lovers right over there. It’s the nice little story everybody’s been waiting for. All eyes on them.”

“Very well.” Alma concedes the point, flinching imperceptibly as Johanna’s hand settles on her waist, but then relaxes as the girl leads her off towards an empty space of floor, drawing an easy breath of comfort. “That’s the point. An event like this gives everyone the hope they need to keep going. Just the knowledge of that chance for happiness – it’s enough to make us all persevere.”

Johanna cackles harshly, her free hand clamping onto Alma’s shoulder, the other staying at her waist. “You say that like it applies to you or me. Alma, you know I think you’re better than everyone else in this godawful bunker, but you have got to stop with that sentimental bullshit.”

Alma draws a breath, gritting her teeth a little, but sets her hand cautiously on Johanna’s own thin waist, gripping a handful of the loose cloth. “To exclude myself, or you, from the idea of a happy ending would be much more pessimistic than I’m willing to accept.”

Johanna mutters something to herself, then scoffs, tossing back her next comment with a poised nonchalance. “It’s just stupid to hope for it or to expect it. If it happens, great, fine, fantastic. If it doesn’t, then we’d better damn well know what to do.”

“I always do.” She shakes her head, grey strands swishing against her shoulders. “ _We_  do. You, me, all of us – we’re survivors.”

“Alma, why does everything you say sound like it belongs on a propaganda poster?” Johanna grips her tighter, settling into a slow rhythm of swaying back and forth with her in a poor imitation of an actual dance. They’re close enough to be comfortable, blending into the crowd well enough to be overlooked. “Be genuine!”

“I  _am_ genuine! This is me.” And before she can control it, Alma is hissing out pent-up thoughts through gritted teeth, looking Johanna right in the eyes, their unflinching stares matching each other in raw intensity. “Do you think everything that I am is just a manufactured act, poised to take the throne when Snow falls? Do you think I’ve led my people for two decades just for a chance at my own glory? I was prepared to do this until I died, and I still am. As a matter of fact, I expect that.” She inhales sharply. “So don’t consider me stupid for considering the possibility that there might be a chance for me to outlast this rebellion. A small chance is all I have.”

Johanna is silent, just holding her, the sounds of the violinist’s plucking and the cheering audience and the patter of feet on the floor all fading to a muted hum. Alma’s gaze is downcast now, looking past her to stare at a particularly fascinating patch of indoor shrubbery, and Johanna lets go of her shoulder and cups Alma’s jaw in the palm of her hand. “I didn’t say  _any_  of that. Is that what you’ve been thinking about?”

“Every waking moment.” Alma addresses her honestly, letting the momentum of Johanna’s body carry her through a few shuffling steps back and forth, loosely conforming to the rhythm of the upbeat tune. It’s a muted buzz in her ears, matched by a muffled heartbeat. “You know how the Games are. Casualties are steep.”

“Yeah, I sure would know, wouldn’t I?” Johanna bites her lip. “Go on.”

“All I intended to say was… none of that, actually.” Alma coughs under her breath, regaining her composure. Unexpectedly, she tucks her hair behind her ear, pulling back the curtain of silver to reveal the corner of her jaw, angled cheekbones, a delicate neck. “I’m sorry. I don’t air these concerns with anyone. To address them would be to lend them credibility they don’t deserve. Just know that when I say something, I mean it. I always have.”

“I see that. It drives me insane.” Johanna sighs. “I love it.”

Alma’s expression shifts imperceptibly, from worry back to faint interest, her gaze uplifted. Somehow they’ve inched a little closer, bodies pressed together, still a poor emulation of the actual dance-step but moving together well enough that it doesn’t really matter. “I’ve tried for years to be the best that I can for my people. Sometimes it concerns me how much I’ve sacrificed of my own self to reach that point.”

“What? You’re worried that you’re, what, twenty percent Alma and eighty percent District Thirteen?”

Alma is actually amused, a gentle musical laugh that brings a grin to Johanna’s face. “Well, essentially – yes. I’ve devoted so much to this cause, I’m not sure how well I’ll manage when it’s all over.” A soft sigh. “But I owe it to myself and to Panem to try.”

“Fuck yeah, you do. You think anybody out there could do as well as you? Not a chance.” Johanna’s thin mouth twists into a savage grin, eyes blazing with delight. “So yeah, keep saying all that ridiculous heartfelt shit you like to say. All that talk about building a better nation and reaching the destiny we deserve. We need  _someone_  who really believes in it.” She pauses for an afterthought. “And I don’t mean Katniss and her whole ‘everybody is innocent’ bullshit. What you’ve got is different.”

An awkward throat-clearing off to her side disrupts her, and she hears the recognizable timbre of Plutarch’s hesitant voice. “May I cut in?”

“No.” Johanna sweeps Alma away, prompting a slight look of amusement from the president, which she is clearly trying very hard to conceal. “Rude.”

“Well, he wasn’t doing any harm by asking.” Alma might have tightened her grip on Johanna anyway. “You’ll have to pardon Mr. Heavensbee. He can be far too enthusiastic sometimes.”

Another faint, pointed grin. “So can I, but I’ve earned it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Titles and triumphs set aside, Alma and Johanna are just two guests at a wedding who have nothing of their own to celebrate. At least they can find their entertainment elsewhere. Flirtation turns to talk of war and back again, and they make promises that can’t be kept. For now, it’s comforting to pretend. 
> 
> \- - -
> 
> Johanna lets a harsh smile rest on her face again. “That’s why you’re the better president.”
> 
> “It wouldn’t take much.” But Alma concedes the point. The lavender in her hair is a nice touch, as much as she fights the idea of decoration. She reaches up and fidgets with it a bit, fully aware of Johanna’s eyes on her, an intense stare that almost burns with demand. “I mean it. Every word.”
> 
> “Like I said…” Johanna bites back a comment. They’ve been over this already. Alma is exasperatingly genuine, with all her motivational sentiments and her single-minded focus. Instead of continuing the sentence, Johanna leans in with the supposed intention of smelling the lavender, but whispers in her ear instead. “Whatever. I still want to see you in that dress.”

The tempo shifts to something upbeat, more citizens joining the swirling mass of joyous guests to celebrate the occasion. Suddenly the pair is out of place with their clumsy synchronized shuffling, and Johanna leads Alma off the bare floor towards a corner of the garden, away towards a more pleasant silence. She was right, they won’t be missed over here, lurking behind the refreshments table and well out of the way of Cressida’s camcorder. Let the others have their fun; the victor and the president’s conversation has turned to more serious issues. “What’s the plan now? What do we do?”

Alma studies her critically, and in this light Johanna can see how weary she looks, wan and faded even with her tired little smile. “You and me particularly, or the rebellion, or somewhere in between?”

“Any part of it. You’re the one with the vision.”

“The rebellion will continue forward as planned. With District 2 dispatched, we’ll have an easier time launching our assault on the Capitol. There’s been a much greater degree of mobility between the districts--” And Alma falls silent when Johanna presses a finger to her lips, shooting an irritated glance in her direction. “What, then?”

“I don’t know what I was looking for, but not that.” One of Johanna’s sleeves has fallen down. She angrily pushes it back up again, crumpling the drab utilitarian fabric, but Alma has taken hold of her wrist and is neatly folding up the cloth, leaving the sleeve at elbow length. Johanna’s forearm is pale and punctured at the vein, tiny holes and scars left behind from the morphling needle, and Alma just looks at her with concern and gently runs her fingers over the skin of her inner wrist. Johanna bites back a comment, teeth digging into her lip to stifle herself. “I’m fine.”

“There’s no reason to lie to each other.” Alma clasps one of Johanna’s hands in her own, small cold fingers soothing against rough skin, and considers leaning in to brush her lips against the girl’s cheek -- but they are in public, or as public as such a small group can possibly achieve, and it would be unwise. She settles instead for a final squeeze to her hand and then drops it. “As I was saying. We’ll continue the military assaults, and the propos, if we can.”

“Yeah. Good luck.” A sarcastic scoff from Johanna. The moment has not gone unnoticed. “I’ll start training, just in case.”

Alma eyes her. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve spent my life doing things like this. Where do you think I got so good with an axe? Life’s rough out in the woods.” She shrugs, the cloth of her shirt falling loosely around bony shoulders. “If I’m not working, I start to go crazy.”

“I know the feeling.”

“So let me train.”

“Not until you’re well.”

“How soon’s _that_ going to be?”

“When the doctors decide.” Alma sighs, and rubs her temple, half her hair still tucked behind one ear, the rest falling into her face in a cascade of long frayed strands. “In the meantime, you can keep me company. Would you be so opposed to that?”

“I thought you already  _had_ a teacher’s pet.” Johanna lifts her chin, glaring in the direction of Plutarch, who seems to be trying to cut in on Effie and Haymitch now, unsuccessfully. She considers sympathy for a fraction of a second but rejects it out of hand. “You could get anyone out of District 13 to stand beside you and say yes to every goddamn thing you do, and you want  _me?”_

“You wouldn’t do that.” Alma purses her lips, studying her, gaze moving past her to scan the crowd and then focusing back in on Johanna once more. She is relentless, bare-faced and hard-eyed, with her uniform draped wrongly around her spare frame. Nothing about Johanna is soft or easy. “That’s why I want you.”

“Ha. Fine.” Johanna lets out a scornful short laugh. It’s almost impossible to believe. Someone who’s in charge of something wants  _her_  help and  _her_ thoughts. “You know I don’t do so well with authority figures, right?”

“Again.” Alma lifts one shoulder, her perfectly fitted suit jacket shifting with the motion. “My reasoning is fairly clear, I’d hope. I need different points of view.”

“Yeah. That, and good company. Let’s be honest here, it’s lonely at the top.” Johanna challenges her, leaning over her ever so slightly. Even with Alma’s boots and the built-in heels and the shoulder pads and every little trick to make herself seem not quite so short, Johanna is, indeed, still taller. “Isn’t it, Madam President?”

Alma meets Johanna’s eyes without lifting her chin. She is being tested, she knows this much. “I never said it wasn’t.”

“That’s more like it.” Johanna’s thin hands come to rest on Alma’s shoulders, giving her a light squeeze. An abrupt subject change, and a grin flits across her face to match. “You didn’t dress up for the wedding. I thought you would.”

“You expected _me_  to dress up?” They’ve migrated towards the wall now, standing near a particularly lush patch of foliage, and Alma addressed her with eyebrows raised, incredulity written into every line of her delicate face. “Have I ever?”

“I don’t know. Never seen you at a special occasion before. All I see is grey. Lots and lots of grey.” Johanna’s hands wander slowly down to Alma’s waist, caressing the silky fabric of her suit jacket, fingers hooking in the small cloth belt that keeps her jumpsuit cinched in at the waist. It’s a finer weave of fabric than the standard issue, but only slightly; the difference would never be noticed to anyone who wasn’t getting hands-on with the president. She tugs her closer and Alma steps forward, matching the movement smoothly. “I shouldn’t be surprised. This is a uniform for you, isn’t it? You don’t stop working. Not even to have a little fun.”

“I  _had_  a gown.” And again Alma rises to Johanna’s goading, blurting out a retort with her jaw tensed and her eyes narrowed. “I chose not to wear it. It would have been unexpected for me, and I didn’t want to distract from the real focus of attention.”

“Oh, I bet you would’ve been distracting, all right.” Johanna’s imagination springs back to her first visions of Alma, when she was nothing more than a pretty lady seen in glimpses at her bedside in the D13 hospital wing, viewed through a haze of morphling and dreams. She’d pictured her all kinds of ways back then, anything to distract from the searing pains that wracked her and persisted even after her torture; wondered about her, envisioned her, fantasized. Admittedly it was a bit jarring to find out that particular lady was the president, but Johanna has never been known for her sense of appropriate behavior. Now she’s right back at it, picturing Alma’s delicate curves in a figure-hugging silken sheath of grey. “What kind of gown was it?”

“Something simple. Don’t worry about it.” Alma lifts her head up, composing herself. Johanna has an alarming habit of cutting straight to her core. Alma has spent her life carefully treading inside every boundary, biding her time, behaving as she believes she should. Maybe she should have worn that dress. Effie did dress up, but Alma is no Effie, and she prides herself on that more than she ought to. “I’ll wear it if I ever have an occasion that deserves it.”

“I can think of a few.” Johanna leans past her, poking around in a little patch of foliage by the wall. Flowers are growing there, something small and hardy and fragrant; lavender. She plucks a stem of it, crushing a few blossoms between her fingers to release the scent. “Maybe your inauguration.”

Alma’s eyes flash with defiance. “I’d never wear a dress to that.”

Johanna takes her time in letting a smile form, a slow wicked grin that stretches across her thin face. “Then wear it just for me.”

“You must be joking.”

“Nope.” Before Alma can protest or swat her away, Johanna leans in and tucks the sprig of lavender behind her ear, smoothing strands of long grey hair around it. Alma twitches, a slight motion of the corner of her mouth, and reaches a hand up to take it out, but Johanna catches her by the wrist. “Don’t. It looks good on you.”

Alma just maintains a calm gaze. The music has died down and the chatter has risen, the party growing increasingly raucous as the night unfolds. A peaceful silence hangs between them nonetheless, a stillness filled with soft breaths and wanting stares. “I didn’t think you were the type for flowers.”

“I’m not.” Johanna gives a sharp bitter noise of disgust, a hiss of exhaled breath, and reaches up to run a hand over her bare shaven head, feeling the soft fuzz that’s started to grow back in. She wishes she’d found a hat, a hood, something to avoid feeling so wretchedly bare, stripped at the hands of the Capitol. She used to draw power from her own defiance. Now it’s all been turned against her.

“You’ll never know me how I used to be.”

Alma breathes in. “Pardon?”

“Johanna fucking Mason, victor of the 71st games, survivor of the fucking Quarter Quell. You know how they tortured me? Do you? I’d repeat that shit to myself to remind me who I was, not to tell them anything. They _broke_  me.” Johanna takes a shaky breath, hands balled into involuntary fists, separate from Alma now save from the gaze they’re sharing. “And fine, I’m here now, safe and sound in this goddamn ant colony, spending an evening hanging out with the president and tucking flowers behind her ear. You know what?  _Nothing_ can go back to the way it was, no matter how hard I try to make up for it. I’d trade it all away if I could.” She blurts it out without thinking, then reconsiders. “No, I wouldn’t. Not you, I wouldn’t. But to go through that kind of hell for Katniss’s sake? She doesn’t care. She just wants revenge.” Johanna’s words are running away with her. She slows her pace, angrily rubbing the back of her neck, pulling her oversized jacket tighter around her. “You’re never going to know me how I was. There were still a few shreds left before the second Games. When they caught me they beat and shocked all of me out of me, until it was easy to dress me up in some monstrosity made out of Snow’s curtains and put me on camera like a mannequin prop.” She shudders, a gust of cold air washing over her as some hidden climate setting in the underground meadow activates, right on time. “It’s like you’re getting a second-rate Johanna Mason. It’s not fucking fair to either of us.”

 _“No.”_  Alma’s tone is surprisingly emphatic. She reaches out to clasp Johanna’s hands, an instinct and a calming mechanism, but the way their fingers interlace is different, far different from any other approach she might take to a distressed citizen or a crying Mockingjay. Her fingers are cool, but there’s a certain warmth in her palms that flows through Johanna’s cold clammy skin and soothes her oddly. “You  _will_ recover. I’ll see to it--”

Johanna interrupts her before she can continue. “Snow has to die. I made her promise me.”

“Snow will die. Publicly, gruesomely, speared through the heart. I’m sure Katniss can oblige that. She’s been insisting on her right to kill him.” Johanna fidgets a little at that, but Alma seems not to notice, and continues. “His death has more meaning than the propaganda of it. It might lead to healing, for all of us.” Alma beckons her closer, lets go of her hands to rest her touch instead on Johanna’s thin waist. She can feel her hipbones beneath the sturdy cloth, and could probably feel her ribs, too, if she dared touch further. “Do you know how much progress you’ve made? Look at yourself. No one should have to endure what you did. Snow has built his reign on the basis of torture, and you’re bold enough to spit in his face for it. Nothing about you is second-rate.”

Johanna lets a harsh smile rest on her face again. “That’s why you’re the better president.”

“It wouldn’t take much.” But Alma concedes the point. The lavender in her hair is a nice touch, as much as she fights the idea of decoration. She reaches up and fidgets with it a bit, fully aware of Johanna’s eyes on her, an intense stare that almost burns with demand. “I mean it. Every word.”

“Like I said…” Johanna bites back a comment. They’ve been over this already. Alma is exasperatingly genuine, with all her motivational sentiments and her single-minded focus. Instead of continuing the sentence, Johanna leans in with the supposed intention of smelling the lavender, but whispers in her ear instead. “Whatever. I still want to see you in that dress.”

Alma’s shoulders rise and fall in a gentle shrug. “No, you don’t. Dresses aren’t my style.” She makes no move to pull away from Johanna. “It’s not that good, I assure you.”

“I know what I want.”

“Maybe some arrangements could be made.”

“That’s better--”

The moment is shattered in a second. A timer chimes, a light beep echoing through the room, and Johanna has only a moment to glance up and track its source before a light wet mist sprays from the ceiling, sending the entire room into a state of scrambling, laughing chaos. “Oh,  _fuck!”_  And she’s dashing towards the door in a beeline, jaw clenched, muscles tensed, dragging Alma along with her. Panic response. Some things don’t change, not after the torture. 

It lasts too long, the frantic sprint to the nearest exit, to escape, with Alma close behind. Once safe, Johanna leans against the doorframe, gasping and catching her breath. “What the  _fuck_ is going on?”

Alma is still standing near one of the ceiling sprinklers, hands on her hips, looking extremely irritated. “Unbelievable. I told the irrigation manager to disable the daily watering.” Aside from a new damp sheen on her hair, turning grey into bright silver, she seems none the worse for wear. “It’ll stop in a few minutes.” She looks over her shoulder, surveying the crowd of guests and dignitaries and honored tributes, all of whom are still caught up in the celebration, indoor rain or not. And then her attention returns to Johanna, miserable and shivering. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m outta here.” Johanna shoves open the door, a small gateway in the corner marked with a faintly glowing Exit sign, and Alma hastens after her to try to stop her but she’s through already, stalking down the dim corridor. This isn’t the real entrance, that much is obvious, just an escape hatch, one of many in the District’s construction -- but it’s enough to get her out, and that’s all she wanted.

She slows to a stop beside one of the many warning signs, still shuddering every so often, and her discomfort is clear to Alma, who comforts her with a touch to the shoulder. “It’s all right. I wasn’t intending to stay the whole time, either.”

“Sure you weren’t.”

“No, I really wasn’t. There’s no place for me at a wedding.” Alma cautiously unzips her jacket, shedding it from her slim body and shaking it out before placing it around Johanna’s shoulders. If Johanna were healthy and muscular again it wouldn’t fit quite so well, but she’s still small, thin, not quite malnourished but clearly not her full self. Alma hesitates, searching for the right words; what to say? How to fill the silence? There’s nothing here but the hum of the lights overhead and the distant churning of equipment, vibrating through the thick stone walls. She raises her voice a bit, just to be heard. “I’ll walk you back to your quarters, if you’d like.”

No. No way. Johanna’s quarters are adjacent to Katniss’s, and the whole point of this -- at least at the start -- was to distract from Katniss’s absence being noticed. _Especially_ after she’d encouraged Katniss to go sneak out on her secret self-appointed mission. She slides her arms into Alma’s jacket, appreciating the warmth, although the sleeves are too short for her. Figures. “I’ve got a better idea.” She arches an eyebrow, an oddly cocky grin crossing her face. At the moment she looks like she might like to eat Alma up. “Let’s go to  _yours.”_

Alma clears her throat, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Johanna folds her arms, head tilted askance, focused on the question. Surely the president can be persuaded. “I want to see you in that gown. It wouldn’t take long.”

She looks at the girl through warm grey eyes, mouth drawn in a small frown. “You can see me in it later.”

“What if there is no later? Life’s risky down here, you know. You said it yourself. We’re living in a war, everything is temporary, blah blah seize the moment.” Johanna waves a hand, dismissing her own thoughts. “And, uh. Please.”

Finally, Alma allows a hint of a smile. “Just the ‘please’ would have been enough.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party is over now, at least for them. Johanna’s attention has turned to more pressing issues, though she’s not yet certain how cooperative Alma will be. As for the president, she prefers to preserve a hint of mystery. After all, they have the whole night to themselves.
> 
> \- - - 
> 
> Johanna obliges, working the small zipper up to her shoulder blades and feeling the snug fit around Alma’s body, the way the fabric stretches just enough to contour to every curve. This really is nothing like the jumpsuits. She sees why Alma’s kept it secret, regardless of Johanna’s own fondness for this kind of look. “Better?”
> 
> “Yes.” And Alma steps away and turns, letting Johanna see the dress and witness its full impact. She looks spectacular, pale and shimmering with the light catching in the gown’s metallic threads, hands clasped in front of her and her hair falling loose about her shoulders in the same shade as the garment’s silver weave. She inhales, and squares her shoulders proudly, looking like a statue come to life. Alma is beyond presidential, nearly divine.
> 
> For once, Johanna has no words.

Alma’s quarters are small and spare, just a tiny housing unit like every other, tucked behind a utility door in the nuclear wing of the district. She likes it this way, with her privacy and her security, the walls burdened with full bookshelves and piles of paperwork set atop every table. The kitchen is sparsely stocked with the necessities, and a coffeemaker is tucked beside the toaster. Johanna lunges for it, fetching a mug from the cupboard and hunching over the little machine. “This is new.”

“I told you, we’re reintroducing coffee to the district. We need to be careful, though. It’s habit-forming.” Alma quietly gathers up a sheaf of papers, placing them in order and sliding them into a manila folder labeled with a neat small print. Progress reports for one department or another; right now it doesn’t really matter. “Feel free to help yourself. Cream is in the fridge, sugar is in the top drawer.”

“Who keeps their sugar in a  _drawer_?” But Johanna is already drinking it black, gulping down half a scalding cup before she can feel the pain. “I’ve forgotten what it’s like to actually _taste_ anything. They didn’t feed me much back in the Capitol.” She eyes the small grey figure collecting the papers, admiring the woman without shame. The little stalk of lavender is still tucked behind Alma’s ear. Adorable, really. “But I can think of something I’d like to eat.”

Alma is oblivious. “You can submit a request to the D13 dining hall at any time, you know.”

“Oh, is  _that_ what we’re calling it now?”

“Calling what?”

“Never mind.” 

She polishes off her coffee, dumping the mug into the sink. She isn’t sure if Alma has a dishwasher in her quarters and doesn’t really care to find out. Then she saunters over, the grey blazer still draped around her shoulders. Truth be told, she likes Alma an awful lot without it, the way the light cloth of her shirt hugs her figure, showing off certain curves not normally seen beneath a uniform jacket. “So, about that dress…”

Alma slouches over the table, suddenly very interested in the contents of another stack of papers. “Maybe later.”

Johanna rests a hand on her hip. “It _is_ later.”

“Just give me a minute.”

“I can wait.” She takes another pace closer, gently placing a hand on Alma’s lower back, and the president doesn’t even flinch, just shoots a wordless glance over her shoulder, half reprimand and half come-hither. Johanna takes the invitation and wraps her arms around Alma’s waist, pulling her back towards her. Their eyes meet, and for a moment both resist, but then they fall naturally into a kiss and Johanna can’t help but feel the softness of Alma’s lips against her own chapped ones, wondering at her beauty. How does a girl like her get a woman like Alma, exactly? Pure dumb luck. By the time they let go, Johanna’s permanent scowl has morphed into a stupid lovestruck grin, which she tries to wipe from her face, only half-succeeding. “No, I can’t.”

“I won’t make you.” Alma takes her by the hand, paperwork thoroughly abandoned, and leads her off towards one of the apartment’s corners, a closet filled with grey. Suits, jumpsuits, jackets, pants, everything imaginable out of the limited military styles that Alma prefers to wear. Johanna watches with raised eyebrows as she shuffles through the shelves, digging around in the back, reaching deep into stashes of untouched clothing until she finds a small package tied up with a silvery ribbon. “This might be it.”

“You never even opened it?”

“Of course I did. I wrapped it back up again after checking to be sure it fit.”

A strange question occurs to her. “Alma. What did you wear to get married?”

“My usual jumpsuit.” Her mood falls flat abruptly. “We signed a certificate and that was that.”

“Sorry. Well, if you ever do it again, you should wear that dress.”

“You haven’t even seen me in it.”

“Isn’t that the point?” She cracks a smile. “Whatever. Put it on. I’ll help.”

“If you insist.” Alma unties the ribbon with a careful touch, letting it fall and spiral its way to the bare floor, then pulls the packaged garment from its paper, watching its full length unfold. Held up a little lower than shoulder height, it reaches all the way to the ground; as Johanna had predicted, it’s silvery-grey (what else would it be?) and tailored in in a classical style, something reminiscent of Greece or Rome or wherever, with a high waist and an elegant cut. It’s nice, Johanna thinks. Really fucking nice. “I suppose this is it.”

“Sure looks like it.” Johanna glances from the gown back to Alma, unsure which one she should be complimenting. “I see why you haven’t worn it. No one’d be able to keep their eyes off you.”

“You flatter me.” She purses her lips, looking at the dress with a hint of regret. “You’ve seen it. Must I really try it on?”

“That was the deal.” Johanna licks her lips, still tasting the sweetness of Alma’s chapstick. “I promised I’d help.”

“Yes, that’s what I was afraid of.” But Alma’s tone makes it clear she doesn’t mean it, and she lays the dress across a nearest cupboard and moves to sit at the edge of the bed, starting to undress. She unlaces her boots first, kicking them off into the corner of the room with surprisingly less care than Johanna expects, and when she stands again she is a noticeable few inches shorter. “Don’t say a word.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” Johanna hides a grin. “Wow.”

“You’re saying it.”

“No I’m not.” A pause. “If I was stronger, I’d lift you up to kiss you.”

“I’d like that. Let me know whenever you’re ready to try.” Alma is already deftly unbuttoning the top buttons of her shirt, revealing the fine porcelain skin of her throat and chest, and Johanna is staring. “I would ask you to help, but you seem a bit incapacitated.”

“C’mon, I’m helping. If I was any more helpful I’d tear that shirt right off you.” As it stands, Johanna is reasonable enough to know she shouldn’t. She just settles for tossing the crumpled garment into the laundry hamper once Alma’s managed to shed the shirt, now standing before her in a nicely fitted undershirt and tailored uniform pants. “It’s up to you now, unless you want to get a whole lot more intimate than I was expecting. Not that I’m opposed to that. Kind of the opposite, really.”

Alma unzips her pants and steps out of them, revealing long legs and small grey-socked feet, comfortable underwear fitted to her shapely hips. “I’ll manage.”

Johanna might be staring a little more than before. A lot more.

“Are you all right over there?”

“Totally, completely fine.” Johanna leans against the edge of the bed-frame, completely transfixed. Alma is a vision of perfection, standing before her mostly undressed, arms folded and a small frown on her face, just what Johanna expects and loves. She wonders for a split second if anyone else has ever seen Alma this way. Surely someone has, but how long ago? There’s something about the way they interact that makes Johanna think it’s been a damn long time, and  _she_ gets to be the one to change that. It’s an honor, honestly. “You are drop dead gorgeous.”

“Not quite the words I’d choose, everything considered, but… thank you.” Alma self-consciously reaches for the gown, attempting to let the smooth fabric just slide over her head and fall into place around her body, but she can’t quite manage not to get stuck. Johanna approaches at once and eases her into it, fitted sleeves matching up to slim arms, the gown’s sleek lower half contoured to her hips and the folds of the skirt falling freely from there. The cloth is almost metallic, pliable to the touch yet powerful, like the woman herself. Before zipping it up, Johanna lets her fingertips linger at the bare skin of Alma’s lower back, holding her breath to enjoy the stillness of the moment. Alma is the one who breaks the silence, turning her head gracefully to look Johanna in the eyes. “You like it, don’t you.”

“Of course I like it. I like everything you do.” Probably too much of a generalization, given Johanna’s penchant for hating things, but it does apply in this particular instance. “Thanks for doing this.”

“You haven’t seen it properly yet. Zip it up.”

Johanna obliges, working the small zipper up to her shoulder blades and feeling the snug fit around Alma’s body, the way the fabric stretches just enough to contour to every curve. This really is nothing like the jumpsuits. She sees why Alma’s kept it secret, regardless of Johanna’s own fondness for this kind of look. “Better?”

“Yes.” And Alma steps away and turns, letting Johanna see the dress and witness its full impact. She looks spectacular, pale and shimmering with the light catching in the gown’s metallic threads, hands clasped in front of her and her hair falling loose about her shoulders in the same shade as the garment’s silver weave. She inhales, and squares her shoulders proudly, looking like a statue come to life. Alma is beyond presidential, nearly divine.

For once, Johanna has no words.

She gets her voice back after a second. “You look fucking amazing. Please wear that.”

“I’ll consider it.” She moves, and the illusion breaks, but only slightly. “I’ll need your help to take this off, of course.”

“Take it off? C’mon. You have to leave it on for at least a couple more minutes--” Johanna hesitates. “Oh.”

A raised eyebrow is all she receives in response.

Johanna does wait a little longer, letting herself get her fill of Alma in the gown, but the idea of Alma without it is even more compelling, and she’s all too quick to make a move for the zipper, working it back down the path of Alma’s spine until the magnificent dress is loose enough to fall away off her body, pooling at her feet like a fallen silver cloak. She bends down to retrieve it, folding and packaging it back up again with a few smooth motions, and then it’s back in her closet like nothing ever happened.

Johanna is still captivated.

Alma tugs her pants back on again, feeling the contrast between the loose fit of the common grey cloth and the splendor of the gown. “I’m glad you liked it. No one has seen me in it before.”

So she  _was_ right. Johanna lets out a soft laugh, still staring at her, more lovestruck than skeptical. “I guess I’m your first, then, huh?”

“In that way, yes. Any other ways remain to be seen.” Alma clears her throat primly, then approaches her companion, one hand outstretched. “My jacket, please?”

Johanna sheds it with a twinge of regret and offers it back. “No shirt, huh?”

“Not right now.” Alma offers no justification for her motives, thinking it perfectly clear. Once her jacket is snug around her shoulders again, she reaches up one sleeve, then the other, and sheds the tank top, pulling it down and off. One button in front secures the jacket shut, providing tantalizing glimpses of bare skin.

Johanna laughs. “Showoff.”

“No, that would be you, I believe, my love. I’m just getting comfortable. It’s awfully warm in here.” Alma does seem to be getting a bit flushed, but keeps her cool well enough to deposit the small grey item into the hamper, striding out of the room shortly after. “I’m not going out again today, either.”

Johanna wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, admiring. “Imagine if you did, dressed like _that.”_

“I’d rather not imagine any such thing. There is exactly  _one_  person I’d like to see me like this.”

“You don’t have to be coy, Alma. I’m right here, staring at you and your gorgeous self.”

“I wasn’t being coy. I’m just pointing out you’re the only one.”

“Course I am. What kind of secretive lady would you be if you let everybody have a look?”

“I wouldn’t be  _me_  if I did. I’m very sparing with my affections.”

“Sure you are. You were ready to kiss me back at the wedding.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You wanted to.” Johanna silences any further argument with a kiss, hands roaming up the inside of Alma’s jacket, drawing out a soft whine muffled against her lips. Cold fingers touch and rub the right places, and Alma goes limp in her arms, clearly visibly pleased despite her faint concerned scowl. “Well, that was easy.”

Alma untangles herself from the embrace, pointedly buttoning up her jacket another notch. “Oh, you happen to be talented. That’s all.”

“Yeah?” Johanna’s face twists into a sharp grin. “Want me to show you  _how_  talented I am?”

“Perhaps later. I have to finish all that paperwork.” Which is suddenly a very pressing concern. Alma strides out of the room, paying close attention to the stack of files on the table. “Would you be interested in helping me with that?”

“Not even a little.”

“But you  _will_  still keep me company.” Grey eyes meet Johanna’s hazel ones, looking peculiarly gold in the warm light. “Won’t you?”

Johanna hops up on the nearest countertop, leaning back against a cabinet. “As long as you want me, I’m here to stay.”

“Then, Miss Mason, please do me a favor and stay a while.”

She beams at her from across the room, keeping eye contact with the woman she adores. District president, obvious crush, tentative lover. One of those things ought to exclude the others. It doesn’t. Johanna is so fucking grateful.

“You got it, Madam Prez.”


End file.
